


Now, And For All The Future

by Natasha_Von_Lecter



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 21:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11586324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Von_Lecter/pseuds/Natasha_Von_Lecter
Summary: Colonel Gold returns from India when he becomes the Guardian of Miss Belle French. Despite his developing feelings for his lovely ward, he is determined to see her settled, but marrying Belle off to one of the eligible local bachelors proves more difficult than expected.Prompt: Regency, Arranged Marriage, Love





	Now, And For All The Future

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thegrrlgeek8](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Thegrrlgeek8).



The first time he sees her, he doesn’t quite realize that he is lost. Her beauty overwhelms him, certainly, but the world is brimming with beautiful women. He knows from experience that beauty can be a trap. Milah was beautiful; he knows that she was. And yet when he remembers her, all he can summon of her face is a cruel twist in her lips that approximated a smile well enough to fool a casual observer, but could not hold up to further scrutiny. So even though his first glimpse of his new ward causes a stutter in his chest, he does not initially realize how fully she will have his heart in her hand in a matter of days. Beautiful she may be – radiant, incandescent, even – but there is more to a woman than her looks. Colonel Gold knows this, and knows that she will soon be gone from his home. She is twenty-four, after all. Her fortune, modest though it may be, will be hers by law on her twenty-fifth birthday. And she does not need his permission to marry now that she is past twenty-one. She only need wait a few mere months for her age of majority and all decisions, of marriage and finance will be hers alone. He can handle eight months of a beautiful woman living under his roof regardless of her temperament. Mean she may be, petty or stupid, but eight months is a short time to wait. He’d lived with Milah for seven years, and she’d hated him for at least the last five. It’s entirely possible she hated him from the first, but he does not care to dwell on the past. Especially when he’s afraid he’s been staring at his new ward, possibly slack-jawed, and has yet to introduce himself.

He gives her a stiff little bow, and tells her, “I am sorry for your loss, Miss French.” 

Her head dips gently as she answers him, “Thank you, Colonel Gold. I miss him terribly. And thank you for opening your home to me. Did you know my father well?” 

Well enough, he supposes. Gold has never had the blessing of close friendships. But he’d known Maurice through business correspondence for years, and the man had never sought to cheat him in a deal. He’d been scrupulously honest in his counts and weights. Gold appreciates that. When Maurice had finally made the journey to India to cement his trade interests, he’d caught ill immediately and promptly died. But not before begging Gold to take his only daughter, Belle, as his ward. Wracked with delirium, awash in sweat and even less savory fluids, Maurice had gripped his hand fiercely and made him swear to see Belle happily married and settled into a comfortable life. And so Gold finds himself back home in England, his decade away settling to the back of his mind as he appraises the young woman before him. Yes, she is beautiful. And her smile, though a little sad at the edges, tugs at his heart. But she’ll be gone in a matter of months. Surely he can keep his dignity for so short a time. He knows better than to fall in love with beautiful women. He is no longer a young man. He is crippled. He is rich, but money only buys compliance – it can never truly buy a heart. He bows stiffly to her, and leaves to reacquaint himself with his home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In a matter of days, he is besotted. He is ever mindful of decorum, and avoids being alone in her company, but she is so very friendly. He would find her warmth towards him completely baffling if he hadn’t observed the way she interacts with everyone. She delights in helping Mrs. Potts polish the silver. She brings tea to his Butler Cogsworth, and makes sure to sneak butter biscuits onto the saucer. She takes apples to the carriage horses. She leaves milk out for the mousers in the barn. And to him, she brings flowers. Roses, huge and fat with bright pink petals, so fragrant they perfume his bedroom for days. He searches his memory, trying to discern the last time someone was kind to him in such a frivolous, yet touching way. He comes up empty. He considers returning the favor, but decides against it. He cannot bring himself to gift her flowers. Men give flowers to women they fancy, and she is too beautiful, and too young for him. Declaring such an intention would embarrass them both. 

He does find a way to repay her, though. She is a voracious reader, and soon outruns the small stack of books she brought with her. One evening, nearly a month after his return, he finds her reclining by the fire, squinting into a small red book of collected poems. He recognizes it. He is still unused to starting up conversations but he clears his throat and tries. 

“Is that a favorite volume of yours, Miss French?”

If his presence startles her, she gives no indication. In fact she smiles brightly at him and offers the slim volume up. He takes it from her, careful, so careful not to brush his fingers against hers. Love poems. Of course. She must be lonely here, he thinks. She should be out. She should be at parties. At balls. Meeting fine young men with large fortunes and handsome faces. She deserves better than to be cooped away with him in his self-imposed exile from society. It’s not her fault his wife was so blatant in her indiscretions that it still raises heated embarrassment on his cheek in any social setting. He’ll give her parties and fine young company. He’ll give her all of it. But tonight, he has something else for her. 

“Miss French, there is…something I should like to show you.”

She smiles even more brightly. She seems to trust him completely, which baffles him. Surely she’s read enough to know that old men are often notorious lechers. That a man like him might wish to keep her all to himself, to swallow up her youth and beauty for his very own. To keep her here in his dark, old house and never let her go. Apparently such things do not color her thoughts, and she offers him her hand. The gesture is too familiar, not proper in the least, but her smile disarms him. He takes her hand and leads her through the dark wood halls to the west wing where he spends much of his time. The door he leads her to is locked and he produces the spare key he has had made. He gives it to her. She threads the key into the lock, and draws the heavy door back. A little gasp escapes her lips as she takes in shelf upon shelf of leather bound books. She darts inside and he follows her as her fingers slide over the old, priceless tomes. Scientific treatises, almanacs and grimoires. A shelf full of poetry and another of novels. These are the treasures he lays at her feet. So engrossed is she in the bounty before her that he nearly withdraws without a word. But she catches him off-guard when she turns suddenly and wraps her arms fiercely around him. She holds tight to him, and he feels a warm wetness where she tucks her face against her neck. She whispers “thank you.” He has no idea what to do with his hands. Or rather all the thoughts that occur to him are scandalous, and he will not disappoint her by showing her how much he wishes he could keep her pressed against him for hours. The library is a gift, and he would not have her see strings attached to it. Though for a moment he nurses a glimmer of hope that perhaps, when she has married and left him, she might still occasionally visit him in this place. She could not love him, but she does love books, so very much and his library isimpressive. The embrace ends, and she wipes happy tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You must think me very silly. Papa always teased me for spending too much time with my nose in a book.” 

He didn’t think she could be lovelier, but the flush on her cheeks suits her. “The pursuit of knowledge is a noble one, Miss French. I hope you spend many happy hours here.” He can’t keep her forever, but he’ll keep her as happy as he can while she shares his home. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They fall into an easy routine. He has encouraged her to invite her friends to visit with her, and they take tea in the parlor at least once a week. He had forgotten what it is to have young people in his home. There is conversation, and laughter, and a lightness that radiates from his young charge. He is glad that she has more than just him for company to brighten her days. Often, when the weather cooperates, she has taken to walking the grounds. He’d done that, almost daily when he was a young man. Before he’d been a soldier and his horse had been shot out from under him. She’d landed hard on her side, crushing his knee into the dirt. He’d been pinned beneath her for hours, after he’d put a bullet in her skull. In retrospect he might have escaped with less injury if he’d urged her to her feet, but she’d been a faithful mount. He couldn’t bear to see her suffer a minute longer. These days, his long walks are over, but watching Belle traipsing through the gardens stirs in him a quiet joy. 

In the evenings, she dines with him. Afterward, they retire to the library and read. Usually they spend most of the evening in companionable silence, but sometimes she will bring him a passage from a scientific tome and ask for his opinion. And on the nights he likes best, she spontaneously reads aloud to him. Things she thinks he might find interesting, almanac entries about medicinal plants, theories on disease. Sometimes, she even reads him poetry. It is the happiest he can ever recall feeling. She is not his, and soon she will leave him. The pain when she does will be like a thorn in his heart, but it’s a price he’ll gladly pay to see her happy. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

An invitation arrives for her six months before her 25th birthday; a lavish ball will take place at the next estate over. She anxiously runs the thick, elegantly lettered paper through her hands. He doesn’t understand her reticence at first, but it becomes clear to him when she quietly asks him if he will accompany her. She’s always so thoughtful – she clearly wants to be with exciting people of her own age, and yet in her kindness she still thinks to include him. He laughs, and she looks startled. “I wouldn’t dream of slowing you down, Dearie! But go you shall! The carriage is yours, and I’m sure Mrs. Potts will be kind enough to chaperone you. Go. Enjoy yourself.” He can’t for the life of him understand why her smile dims. Perhaps it is nerves? Dances are mating rituals after all. Perhaps she’s worried she won’t have dance partners. Silly creature, he thinks. Every man there will land at her feet. He’s sure she’ll enjoy herself when the time arrives. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On the night of the ball he tries very hard not think of her dancing with a bevy of handsome young men; he fails spectacularly. His thoughts haunt him as he settles into his library with an overfull snifter of brandy and a very dull book. He’d caught a glimpse of her before she left, and she’d looked exquisite. Her dress was simple but elegant – pale yellow with gold embroidery at the hem and neck. It suited her, spectacularly, but he knows it isn’t the dress or her hair, or anything she adorns herself with. The simple truth is that he has fallen very deeply in love with her, and he has done so because she is lovely, intelligent, and far kinder than he deserves. It is a sobering thing to find himself so full of love this late in life. He doesn’t know what to do with such feelings. He has money, yes, but Belle is unimpressed by money. He is too old for her. Too worn. He’s not completely feeble, but his injury asserts its influence on him daily. She seems to appreciate his company, but she also appreciates the company of his barn cats and butlers. She is so very kind. Too kind. And there’s the danger. Were he to declare his feelings, he knows it would pain her to turn him away. She’s loathe to hurt another living soul. And that’s the very reason he knows he must keep himself vigilantly in check. He will not bind her to him so cruelly. He will not take his happiness by stealing her own. She deserves a handsome young husband, and he will see her happily married. He’ll make inquiries. Introductions. He’ll find her the match she deserves. And if it breaks his heart, well, he’ll pay that price. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. He crafts his plans while she dances the night away. Eventually he dozes. 

He is startled awake by a gentle hand upon his shoulder. He sighs when he opens his eyes and is greeted by her lovely face. She looks happy. She must have had a good time. Perhaps she even met someone. “Did you enjoy yourself, Dearie?” 

“The music was enchanting!”

“And did you dance the night away?”

She blushes, and suddenly gives a little twirl. “May I tell you a secret?” she asks. He nods, and she blurts out, “There was brandy in the punch!” He laughs and she tugs him to his feet. Suddenly they are standing very close and she is looking at him with bright, expectant eyes. “I missed you.” Kind, always kind, his Belle. Not his, though. He takes a step back but realizes she has not let go of his hand. And she tugs him back. “Will you…dance with me?” His breath catches in his throat. God, how he wants to. He wants to lay his hand at her waist, and look into her eyes, and never let her go. Instead he points to his ruined leg, “I’m afraid my dancing leaves much to be desired, Miss French.” Her face falls and her gaze moves to his knee. “Does it pain you?” He can’t bear to look even more pathetic, and so he lies. 

“No.”

“Then dance with me.”

He knows he should refuse, and send his slightly tipsy ward to her room, but he is quite incapable. And so they waltz. There is no music, and he is no great talent, but they find a slow rhythm. Tomorrow, he will begin his hunt for her husband. He swears he will. He is a strong man, but he is a man nonetheless. It would be so easy to fall to his knees and beg her to stay with him. And damn her soft heart, she would. It would be the most cowardly and despicable act in his life. He will not use her kind nature against her. He swears. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Colonel Gold has never been one for dinner parties, but in the next few weeks he throws several. It is excruciating, to find himself mingling with society again, but it is a necessary evil. Ostensibly he wishes to rekindle his business ties in his home town after his long time away in India. In reality he is determined to find a suitable match for his beloved. He parades every eligible bachelor in the county before her. Handsome men, educated men, rich men. She is delightful to his guests. Her conversational skills dazzle, her wit and beauty overwhelm. She is happy to play hostess at his every gathering. And while she is pleasant to everyone and seems to enjoy herself, she doesn’t seem particularly taken with any one man. He thinks she enjoyed Mr. Hopper’s company the most, though Mr. Nolan was definitely the most handsome. He thought perhaps the darker, brooding type might appeal to her, but her demeanor towards Mr. LeGume was downright chilly. Gold thought perhaps she favored Mr. Locksley when she extracted his promise to teach her archery, but it turns out she just truly desires an education in the sport. She spoke to Mr. Scarlet the longest, but only to offer him advice on impressing his beloved Anastasia. 

Nearly another month passes, and nothing changes. She is pleasant to all, but shows favor to none. She continues her walks, continues to read with him in the evenings, and she seems…happy. It confuses him, but he finds himself running out of ideas. He has no living female relatives to consult, so he finds himself awkwardly trying to strike up a conversation with his housekeeper. She merely clucks her tongue at him in a motherly tone and insists that “Lady Belle knows her own mind and will need no help should she decide she is need of a husband.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Weeks pass, and then months. The wind picks up, shifting from a gentle breeze to more ardent gusts. And on a chilly day in October, Belle reaches her age of majority. Her inheritance is modest by his standards, but it is enough to allow her to take a comfortable cottage of her own if she so wishes. People would talk, no doubt, but he has learned that Belle cares very little for the opinions of others. In the days leading up to her birthday he half expects her to bring it up, but if she considers it, she keeps her own counsel. When the special day arrives he presents her with paperwork his solicitor has drawn up, granting her dominion over her finances. She looks through the paperwork at length, reading each and every paragraph. When she finishes, she looks up at him with an unreadable expression. Her easy smile has fled. “So…you are no longer my guardian then?”

She only speaks the truth, but it stabs at him. He always knew she would leave. “I suppose not.”

She sighs, and seems to be very carefully choosing her next words. “Thank you. For everything.” 

He is so unused to her cloaked in such a serious, heavy demeanor that he hurries to fill the uncomfortable silence. “Miss French, please understand you are now in possession of your fortune and the ability to choose whatever path you wish your life to take. But…please know that you will always have a home here, should you wish it.” 

The corners of her lips begin to turn upwards and she takes his hand. “You have no wish to be free of me, then?”

“Quite the contrary, Miss French. Nothing would please me more than if you were to remain here…” And now she is standing far too close to him. The rash little voice in his head is screaming at him to press his lips to hers, and he only restrains himself with herculean effort. Instead he finishes his sentence. “...until such time as you decide to marry.” The smile abruptly falls from her face and she takes a step back as if struck. 

It is a moment before she finds her voice. She sounds very calm, but he notices her hands are tightly clasped together. “All these dinners. This parade of eligible bachelors. Having you been trying to arrange my marriage? Do you desire to be rid of me?”

It leaves her lips like an accusation and it stings him. “Gods, no. But I would see happily settled, Belle.” 

He can’t for the life of him comprehend why she looks so stricken as she withdraws from him. “I need air. I’m going for a walk.”

A glance at the window offers swollen grey clouds that portend poor weather. “There will be rain soon.” She has no response, but to slip out the door. He goes to the window and watches her recede into the late afternoon light. The wind kicks up and licks at her hair. Her shoulders are rigid with tension; he imagines she is cold. He watches her until she disappears into the fog. And then he paces. He assures himself that everything will be alright. She’ll be back any minute, refreshed from her sojourn in nature. He’ll give her the birthday gift he has secreted in his desk drawer, and she’ll snap out of her uncharacteristic ill humor. He tells himself this story, again and again until he can almost believe it. Until the clock strikes 4:30 and he realizes she has been gone quite awhile. The sound of soft rain begins to caress the windows. Darkness is rapidly approaching, and Belle is still out in the elements. Grabbing his cane and cloak, he sets out to retrieve her. Surely he’s overreacting – she can’t have gone far. He’ll fetch her inside and they’ll have tea and everything will be fine. But fifteen minutes pass and he doesn’t find her. In half an hour, he curses the rain that’s coming down in earnest now, and begins to call, “Miss French!” He can feel himself becoming frantic, and he switches to her given name, screaming, “Belle!” to the winds. And just then, when he’s close to panic, he sees her. She’s lying on the ground, nestled at the base of a muddy hill. His breath catches in his throat as he takes in her closed eyes and ghostly pallor. Oh no. No. Not her. Looking the same hideous shade of white as his boy, when he’d urged his hunter over a hedge too fast, and broken his neck in the fall. He stopped believing in a god that day, but he screams prayers to him as he races to Belle’s side. She is so cold to the touch, but he chokes on relief when he sees her chest rising with breath. He strokes her face, and her eyes struggle to flutter open. She’s alive. For now. He has to get her inside. He takes in her swollen ankle, and surmises she must have lost her footing and struck her head in the fall. He considers trying to lift her, but his ill-used knee is screaming. He knows it will fail him if he tries to bear both of their weight on it. 

“Belle? Sweetheart? You have to help me get you inside.” He shakes her gently and this time her eyes open. She makes a little moue of surprise with her mouth when she sees him, but her eyes flutter closed again. He digs his aching knee into the ground and pulls her into a seated position. “Come on, Belle. Lean on me, sweetheart. I know you’re hurt but I need you to stand up.” She tries. Between the two of them, they manage to gain their feet. He pulls off his cloak, draping it carefully around her. She slumps against him, nearly dead weight and he takes a hesitant half step forward. At this rate, she’ll be frozen through before they make it anywhere close to the house. But all he can do is soldier on. It’s slow going and every step sends lances of pain from his knee up his spine. He’s breathing too hard to talk to her, but he tries, whispering her name softly in the tones he used to soothe his boy when he was sick. 

And then he hears a rhythmic thumping that buoys his terror-stricken heart. Hoof beats. On the horizon, a cloaked figure on a great black horse charges towards them. Gold calls out as loud as he can, and shudders with relief when the figure turns and bears down on them. In a moment he is upon them. “My ward has fallen and hurt herself. I need to get her inside!” He grabs the foaming horse’s bridle, and the rider springs down from his mount. He sweeps Belle up in his arms, laying her carefully across his mount, and swings back into the saddle. Gold points out their home. The rider pauses, taking in Gold’s cane and rapid breathing. “Will you be alright?” 

“Yes!” Gold assures him, slapping the horse hard on its haunches. And then Belle is hurdling towards the warmth of his house in the arms of a chivalrous stranger. She might not be out of the woods yet, but she’ll be warm soon. Gold ignores the searing pain in his knee and redoubles his stride. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It takes him the better part of a half hour to reach his home, but he makes it. He is greeted by a flurry of action. Cogsworth rushes up the stairs carefully balancing a pot of steaming water. No doubt he follows orders from Mrs. Potts who will be upstairs taking charge. The man from the heath approaches him. “I took the liberty of sending your footman for a doctor. Your butler and I took her upstairs, and your housekeeper has taken command of the situation.” 

Gold claps him hard on the back in gratitude. It does not escape him that the man is very Handsome. “Thank you. I fear she would have been lost without you. Mr.?”

“Huntsman. Graham Huntsman.”

“Thank you, Mr. Huntsman. I am in your debt. It’s only getting worse out there. One of the maids will make a room up for you.”

And with that brief introduction, he takes the stairs as quickly as he is able. Mrs. Potts greets him at the door to Belle’s room. “How is she?”

“Chilled through, poor lamb, but we’ve got a roaring fire going and she’s buried under every blanket in the house. What on earth was she doing out in this weather?”

“I haven’t a clue. She just…left.”

Mrs. Potts shakes her head at him in obvious annoyance but pulls him inside Belle’s room. “It’ll do her good to see you’re alright. She wasn’t conscious for long, but when she was she asked if you’d made it back to the house alright.” 

Always so thoughtful, his Belle. Too good and kind for this world. He swallows down his fear and approaches her bedside. She looks small and fragile under the towering mound of blankets, but he is relieved to see a touch of color returning to her cheeks. He wants to stroke her face, but it occurs to him he is practically frozen through himself. He will not steal her warmth. Instead he sinks into the chair besides her bed, and watches her sleep, silently praying the Doctor’s horse is swift and sure-footed. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gold startles awake as Doctor Whale enters Belle’s room. He appraises the situation quickly, and assures him that Mrs. Potts has done an excellent job caring for her charge. Her ankle is sprained, but thankfully not broken. The only danger now is infection taking hold in her lungs. Belle must be kept warm, and allowed to rest. If she develops a cough, he is to be called back to administer a blood-letting. Gold thanks him, pressing a large bag of coins into his hand. He wants assurances that the doctor will return swiftly if called upon. And then, once again, they are alone. He watches her steady breathing, and sighs in relief. He should be back in his own room, but he can’t seem to tear himself away. Instead he takes the slim red volume from her nightstand, and begins to read aloud. It’s silly, a broken down old man reading poetry to a sleeping beauty, but it’s the only thing he can think of to do. His voice caresses each word, wringing the last of his strength from him. As he gazes at her over the top of the book, he thinks he sees a ghost of a smile flit across her lips. He closes the book, setting it in his lap to rest his eyes for a moment. As soon as his eyes close, he is fast asleep. An hour or so later, he is awakened by his housekeeper. Mrs. Potts ushers him out of Belle’s room, and takes his place in the chair. 

Back in his own quarters he slumps exhausted into his bed. He tries to mull over Belle’s strange shift in demeanor that afternoon in the library, but he is so drained from his exertions that sleep takes him almost immediately. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In the morning, Mrs. Potts brings him the good news that Belle has regained consciousness and is much improved in color and mood. He longs to see her, but his housekeeper shoos him away, promising him a visitation after breakfast. He takes his meal with his house guest, Mr. Huntsman, and they become better acquainted. He’d come from London, to visit his distant relations, The Mills. His parents had passed away, leaving him both a house in the city and a rather sizable fortune. Gold imagines Cora wanted Graham for one of her daughters, but their reputations for disagreeableness have preceded them. Mr. Huntsman confides in him that he has accepted their invitation out of propriety but does not plan to stay long. The more they speak, the more Gold finds himself approving of the young man. His judgment seems sound – many young men have fallen for the charms of the Mills sisters without seeing the more sinister machinations below the surface. He has family money, yet speaks of furthering his business interests with calm but steady determination. And of course, he is responsible for saving his beloved Belle. That fact alone would convince him to forgive many faults, though he has yet to find fault with Graham. 

When breakfast is concluded, Mrs. Potts announces that Belle is well enough to receive a short visit. Gold’s heart stutters in his chest as he and Graham make their way to her room. Belle looks drawn, but when she smiles at him and a wave of relief crashes over him. She’ll be alright. “I am very glad to see you much recovered, Miss French.” She looks a bit sheepish, and tells him “I only meant to clear my head in the air, but I slipped on a patch of wet and hurt my ankle in the fall. Forgive me for giving you all a fright.” Her eyes alight on the Handsome Mr. Huntsman and a blush creeps into her cheek. “And I owe you my thanks, Mr.?” 

“Huntsman. Graham, please. I am very happy I was in the right place at the right time to be of service, Miss French. But I fear you need your rest and don’t wish to impose my company on you while you recover. I should take my leave.”

Gold turns to him and clasps his hand between his. “I am forever in your debt, Mr. Huntsman. I hope you will call on us again, soon.” Graham smiles genuinely at him, but his eyes drift over his shoulder to alight on Belle. “I would like that very much, Colonel Gold.” Belle’s quiet voice answers him softly “I would like that as well.” And there it is. Belle has found her hero. It doesn’t break his heart quite as harshly as he imagined it would. Gold keeps his back to her as he watches Graham take his leave. It does hurt, make no mistake, to see her eyes brighten at Graham’s handsome countenance, but there is a small spot of happiness, too. Mr. Huntsman is a fine specimen of a man. He is strong and handsome, well off and well spoken. It is down to him that Belle is even still alive. If he has to lose her to a rival, at least he loses her to good man. When he has schooled his features, he turns back to her, but she does not meet his gaze. She picks at a loose thread on her blanket. He nearly turns to go, but he is stopped by her voice. “How is your leg?” He nearly assures her that all is well, but there’s no use pretending he is better than he is. “It hurts like hell, if I’m honest.” 

“I am sorry. I did not wish to trouble you further.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Miss French. I was crippled long before you entered my life. You are not to blame for my war wounds.” 

“Still…I would not see you suffer on my behalf.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the relief at her being alive, or the sadness of knowing she has met her match in another man that prompts his candidness. But he tells her “Your company has been a great joy to me, Miss French, and if the price of your life is a sore leg and some wounded pride, I would gladly pay it a thousand times over. Rest.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Belle’s recovery is slow but steady. She is not particularly pleased to be confined to bed the first week, but Gold takes it upon himself to fetch her a never-ending stream of books from the library. He brings her especial preferences, interspersed with some he knew were favorites of his boy. He has her bedside chair replaced with his leather armchair from the library and he spends a few hours with her throughout the day. He is careful to leave her plenty of time to rest, but she still seems disappointed when he leaves her side. Three days into her convalescence, Graham calls on her and brings her flowers. Fat, pink roses with a heavenly scent that perfumes her room. Mrs. Potts arranges them on her nightstand, but Belle instructs her to put them by the window. The nightstand is the sacred resting place of her books. The next time Graham calls, he forgoes flowers and brings a book of fairy tales. Gold bites back pangs of jealousy with admiration. Graham is smart enough to realize that Belle is not one to be wooed with the standard trappings most women favor. The way to her heart is paved with printer’s ink. 

When Belle is well enough to leave her room, Gold escorts her to the library. He fusses over her – insisting she sit closer to the fire, and draping a blanket across her lap. She accuses him of being a nursemaid, but her voice is warm as she rebukes him. He is glad to have this back. Their easy evenings in the library fill him with contentment, even as he knows their time together is drawing to an end. 

As soon as Belle begins taking dinner with him again, he invites Graham to join them. Gold feels a bit of a third wheel, but Belle makes sure to always include him in their conversations. She draws out all manner of opinions from him, including many he didn’t even know he held until he heard them issuing forth from his lips. 

When Doctor Whale suggests it is time for Belle to take short walks in the garden, Mr. Huntsman accompanies her. Mrs. Potts trails behind them, giving the young couple enough distance for private conversation, but never quite allowing them out of her sight. When a month has passed, Mr. Huntsman invites her to a ball at the Mills family estate. Gold is no longer her guardian, but he is touched when she asks his permission nonetheless. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The day of the ball dawns cold and clear. Gold knows most of the afternoon will be taken up with preparations, so he asks Belle to join him in the library after breakfast. He produces a leather box from his desk drawer. “I had meant to give this to you on your birthday but…” He trails off, recalling the awkwardness between them that day and the awful night that followed. Belle begins to open the box but he presses his hand over hers, keeping it closed. “Open it tonight, before the ball.” She nods, intrigued, and takes her leave. 

The hours seem to drag on forever, but eventually evening advances. He hears the footman bring the carriage round the front of the house and he knows Belle will be descending any moment. He waits at the foot of the stairs, and his breath catches as he sees her. Her rich chestnut curls are lifted off her neck in an elegant twist. At her throat is a richly worked necklace of gold and sapphires. The stones echo the bright blue of her eyes. She smiles at him, and he takes her hand to help her down from the stairs. 

“Do you like it? It was my mother’s.”

Her hand trails across the necklace, stroking over the stones. “It’s beautiful.”

“Nearly as beautiful as you. Come. I’ll walk you to the carriage.”

He helps her up into the waiting coach, and he cannot help but feel he is sending her off for good. It is nonsense, of course. She’ll be back later this evening. But the air feels charged, changed, and before he closes the door he brings her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her palm. He hears her soft intake of breath and curses his foolishness. He returns her hand and steps back. “Have a lovely evening, Belle.” 

She nods at him, her hand straying back to her throat as the carriage springs away. He watches the carriage until it disappears across the heath. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s not so much that he plans to wait up for her, but that he finds himself too intensely awake to even contemplate sleep. As he so often does, he finds himself pacing the library as the hours wear on. It is well after ten when he hears the carriage return. He doesn’t wish to intrude on her pleasant evening, and elects to remain in the library so she has time to settle into her room in peace. It seems Belle has other plans, however. He hears her dainty footsteps echoing on the wood floor as she makes her way to the library. He expects her to be light and happy, as she was when she returned from her first ball, but the Belle that greets him wears a rather serious expression. “Miss French. Did you enjoy the dance?” She looks at him for a long time as if she is summoning her courage. All of a sudden he knowswhat has happened. He knows this is when he loses her. And yet here she is, struggling for words, very probably looking for a way to spare his feelings when she should be celebrating. Perhaps he has not hidden his love for her as well as he had hoped. When Belle does finally find her voice, he is surprised by her clipped tone. “Mr. Huntsman has asked me to marry him.”

He knew this day was coming. 

He knew she was never his. 

He knew she was always leaving. 

It still hurts. But he smiles for her, because he’d rather rip his own heart out than cause her even a moment’s distress. 

“Have you given him your answer?”

“I have not.”

“You do not need my blessing any longer, Belle, though if you wish it...”

He is taken aback by the sharpness of her tone when she cuts him off “I did not ask for your blessing!”

It is not like her to speak sharply to anyone, and surprise colors his features. He’s caught on the back foot. Perhaps she has been nursing a secret crush on another man he has completely missed. “I was…under the impression that you…liked Mr. Huntsman.” 

“I do like him. Very much.”

“He has a respectable income.”

“Yes.”

“He is…well-made. Handsome.”

“Yes.”

“He reads.”

She barks out a sharp laugh that unnerves him further. “Mr. Huntsman is smart and funny. He is pleasing to look at and he makes pleasant conversation. But he has one flaw that I cannot forgive.”

“Oh? What fatal flaw inflicts good Mr. Huntsman?”

“He’s not you.” 

Colonel Gold’s lips part, but no sound issues forth. The situation is so absurd he feels as though he should laugh, but his throat is clenched, thick with unshed tears. “I…don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?”

“Surely you can’t mean that.”

“Why not?”

It did not occur to him that his evening would be spent regaling his beloved with a list of his shortcomings. It’s so ludicrous that for a moment he wonders if he’s fallen into a fitful, dream-addled sleep. “You’d prefer a crippled old man to a dashing young buck? I have money, surely, but you’re not the type to be swayed by money, Belle. Mr. Huntsman’s house is likely not as great as this, but you’d be getting a better man in the bargain.”

“I do not love him.”

“Surely you cannot love me.”

“But I do.”

Gold is so completely stunned by her confession the he can merely stammer, “Why?”

“You gave me a home. You gave me a library.” She has advanced on him, and lays her hand aside his face as she continues. “You spoke to me like my opinions mattered. You’ve been kind to me.” He’s afraid he’ll lose himself in her earnest blue eyes. “You read to me when I was sick. And I am certain you return my feelings.” He feels something twist in him, some deep wounded place that is terrified to love. And then it snaps, and he is free, as he presses his lips to hers. He means to keep it chaste, but her lips part under his and he is lost in the taste of her. It’s terrifying and new and completely mad, but nothing in the world could consul him to caution now that she’s running her hands through his hair and making soft noises of satisfaction. Eventually, he pulls back. They’re both breathing hard, and he wants nothing more to kiss her all evening. But he looks her in the eyes, and takes her hand between his. “Miss French, I will never understand what you see in me, but I am now, and for all the future, yours.”

Fin


End file.
